PDF - Star Trek - TNG - Survivors

VIP免费

2024-12-13 0 0 345.87KB 127 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Visit us on the World Wide Web

http://www.SimonSays.com/st

http://www.startrek.com

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.,

under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230

Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-1216-8

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Foreword

I would like to thank Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek, which has

been such an important influence in my life; Joseph Stafano and Hannah Louise

Shearer, the authors of “Skin of Evil,” a major influence on this novel; and

Dave Stern, editor at Pocket Books, who gave me strong support in bringing

this book into existence. I have been a Star Trek fan since 1966, when the

first Classic Trek episodes appeared. I learned to write through fanzines, and

have made many wonderful friends through Trekfandom. And now, incredibly, Mr.

Roddenberry has given us Trekfen [sic] a whole new world and a whole new group

of characters to love in Star Trek: The Next Generation.

You may be familiar with my Classic Trek novels, The Vulcan Academy Murders

and The IDIC Epidemic. If you wonder how I can write about the new characters

and the new ship after spending so many years with the originals, the answer

is that the new episodes are a continuation, not a replacement. The spirit of

Trek is as much alive as ever—as I hope you can feel in this novel.

Most of the action of Survivors occurs late in the first season of Star Trek:

The Next Generation, between the episodes “The Arsenal of Freedom” and

“Symbiosis.” By that time the crew of the new

Enterprise know one another pretty well, and Lt. Commander Data, who is one of

the main characters in this book, has had experiences that have led him a

little farther along the path to understanding the human spirit than where he

was at the opening of the series. Lt. Tasha Yar, the other protagonist, is

succeeding in her career, and has no expectations of the fate in store for

her. She seems far more contented and serene than in earlier episodes—and this

book will suggest why.

If you have been a Star Trek fan for years, you may already know about fandom.

If you have just joined us via the new series, welcome! Paramount sponsors a

fan club with a bimonthly newsletter to tell you all the latest news about the

movies, the TV series, the actors and creators:

The Official Star Trek Fan Club

P.O. Box 111000

Aurora, CO 80011

But Trekfandom is not limited to the fan club. If you write or draw or make

music or costumes or want to interact with other fans, you want the original

fandom: friends and letters and crafts and fanzines and trivia and costumes

and artwork and filksongs [sic] and posters and buttons and games and

conventions—something for everybody.

The way to that fandom is not through me, or any other author of Star Trek

novels. You want that wonderful organization, The Star Trek Welcommittee. Be

sure to include a stamped, self-addressed envelope, as this is a purely

volunteer organization of people who love Star Trek and are willing to answer

your questions and put you

in touch with other fans. The current address:

The Star Trek Welcommittee

P.O Drawer 12

Saranac, MI 48881

In both Trekwriting and my other professional science fiction, I have a strong

belief in the interaction between authors and fans. Authors want your

constructive comments. They cannot collaborate with you, write the stories you

want to tell (you’ll have to do that yourself), or critique your novels,

(they’re busy writing their own). They have lives, families, jobs, too—for

example, I am Professor of English at Murray State University. After teaching

all week I want to spend my weekend working on the next novel I am writing for

you to read, not writing letters about how to write novels. You can’t learn to

write that way anyway; you must learn by doing. Get involved in fanzines and

develop your skills as so many of us did. Writing workshops can be a great

help, too—the authors conducting them have set that time aside specifically

for that purpose, and will welcome you.

All authors are happy to receive comments about their books, and most will

answer questions. Did you know that almost everyone who writes Trek novels

also writes other science fiction novels? If Trek novels by a particular

author appeal to you, you might very well enjoy that author’s other work.

Chances are, the themes he or she chooses to develop in Trek are the same ones

he or she treats in other books. Ask at your booksellers for other science

fiction books by your favorite Star Trek authors.

If you would like to comment on this or any of my other books,

you may write to me in care of my publishers, or at P.O. Box 625, Murray, KY

42071-0625. If your letter requires an answer, please enclose a stamped, self-

addressed envelope.

Keep on Trekkin’!

Jean Lorrah

Murray, Kentucky

Chapter One

THE PLANET WAS CALLED New Paris, for the emigrants from Earth who sought

refuge in space after the Post-Atomic Horror meant their new world to be a

planet of light. They intended to found a society where people could be free,

healthy, and happy, where the arts would flourish, where love would grow and

hate wither.

Unfortunately, when New Paris was rediscovered by the United Federation of

Planets in the Twenty-fourth Century, it was far more like the Paris portrayed

by Victor Hugo than that depicted by Toulouse-Lautrec. The dream had died

generations since; in the struggle first for survival and then for dominion,

the inhabitants of New Paris had brought upon themselves the very fate their

ancestors had risked their lives in fragile sub-light ships to escape.

In a city that had once been a model of the union of form and function to

produce beauty and comfort, a fifteen-year-old girl huddled in the ruins left

by The Last War. There were no more wars on New Paris that could destroy on

that scale; today’s ganglords held power by the strength of their bodies,

their numbers, their fighting skills, or their control over food and drug

supplies.

Ragged and filthy, the girl held in her arms the one comfort in her life, a

ginger cat with whom she shared what food she could

find or steal, who in turn kept the rats away from her while she slept—in fact

allowed her to sleep, knowing the cat would wake her if anyone or anything

came near. One time it had even sprung, yowling, on the neck of a man who was

trying to kill the girl for the roasted fowl she had pilfered. It gave her the

chance to get her knife out, and while the cat kept the attacker occupied,

dispatch him. Needless to say, the cat shared generously in the girl’s stolen

feast that day.

But the cat, which she had never named because she knew nothing of the Earth

custom of keeping pets and giving them names, could not help her now. She had

been spotted by one of the rape gangs—and she was only too aware that this

time they would not give up their pursuit.

The one and only time they had caught her, she had been barely twelve. That

time, they had used her for their own amusement, then laughed at her and let

her go. She was too young, too skinny, too hungry.

“We’re throwin’ ya back, gel. Grow up and get some bazooms! Then it’ll be

worth it t’feed yer hungry belly, ‘cause there’s allus geezers’ll pay high fer

fresh meat—an’ you’ll get nice clothes and lotsa pretties, and plenty o’ joy

dust t’keep ya happy.”

That was when the girl learned to fight. There were girls in the gangs; in

fact some gangs were made up of women and girls. But, as she had not been born

into a gang, they would not have her while she was small and skinny, weak and

hungry. The only way to join a gang was to prove your worth—and she had no

worth, as the rape gang had just demonstrated. Well, she certainly didn’t want

to become valuable in their way! The only alternative was to become strong and

skilled, so she could join the warrior women, and never

worry about rape gangs again. She turned her shock and fear into anger, her

anger into determination.

But determination was one thing; training was another. The girl had no

connections with any of the gangs. Her mother had deserted her when she was

only five, and the old woman who had taken pity on the starving child was a

derelict who had outlived the rest of her own gang. She saw in the child

someone to do petty thieving for her, and huddle with her against the cold at

night. And perhaps most of all, someone to talk to. She had taught the girl

the tricks of a cutpurse, simple lock-picking, and the very important skill of

finding the way through the labyrinth of ruined buildings.

She taught the girl to read a little, to be able to decipher the occasional

sign still legible in the cellars and tunnels that had survived the holocaust.

To the street people of New Paris—the vast majority of the population—avoiding

radioactive zones or finding the way through endless miles of identical

corridors was the only use for understanding letters. There were no books in

their world; any that might have survived had been burned many winters ago for

whatever warmth they might provide. Newspapers were unheard of, for the

wealthy druglords who lived high above the ruins exchanged their messages by

runners or communications consoles. In those few tall buildings left standing,

they kept some measure of leftover technology. None of the comcons in the

streets below worked, nor electricity, nor plumbing. Such luxuries were only

for the powerful few.

So at age twelve, the girl had no skills worth the trouble of a gang to feed

and protect her—and so she set out to learn to protect herself. She had a

weapon, the old woman’s knife that was all her legacy, “And more than ever I

got o’ me own mother!” the girl had said upon finding her companion dead when

she awoke one morning. She had not been able to make herself take her clothes,

but had

gone through the pockets. The old woman would have expected it. After all, she

had no more use for the two coins, the scrap of bread, the three pins, and

that all-purpose knife, the blade honed to half its original width, left from

her gang days.

But the day the rape gang found the girl, just two days after the old woman’s

death, the knife did her little good. Perhaps sorrow had made her careless,

inattentive to the movements in the shadows. The knife was wrenched out of her

hand by a laughing man who used it to force her to submit.

They had tied a hood over her head, so she could not see to fight, could not

bite, could not see what was happening as she nearly suffocated while they

took their turns at her. And then, when it was over, the leader pulled the

hood off and scornfully tossed her knife down beside her, knowing she was too

weak and terrified to use it.

She had learned from that experience. Care for a dead woman had let her be

caught, so she would not think about anyone else, ever again. She made no

attempt to befriend the packs of urchins who scorned her as “The ol’ witch’s

slavey.” She was no match for a man if he once got his hands on her, so she

would learn to throw the knife, to kill from a distance. That she could teach

herself, and did; within weeks she could hit a fixed target every time, and

more and more often she skewered the rats she aimed at, even when they

scurried in the dimness.

Some two years later, when she rescued the cat from a pack of wild children

intent on setting its tail afire, it eased her loneliness a little. She didn’t

really care about the animal, she told herself, except that it was useful.

Like her knife. That made it all right to feed the cat, stroke it, be

comforted by its purring when she woke from restless dreams.

The way the children had scattered, despite the fact that they

could have taken her by virtue of their sheer numbers, gave her confidence.

The added wariness she had developed after her painful experience stood her in

good stead as she picked locks and crept into the market at night to help

herself to the best food, instead of trying to filch whatever she could, along

with all the other urchins, in the daytime.

The rape gangs never took her again, although they pursued her. Twice, when

she had eluded the bulk of them, one member continued to dog her. She doubled

back and lay in ambush, killing silently with her knife, tossing the body down

the bottomless shafts that were just another danger in the ruins. She grew

bigger and stronger—and then her body betrayed her by blossoming a woman’s

curves, even though she remained thin and wiry.

It was time, she decided. She would approach one of the women’s gangs, show

them her skill with a knife, tell them of killing two rape gang members—offer

to show them how she did it, for of course the women’s gangs and the rape

gangs were deadliest of enemies.

She set her sights on the Hellcats, who controlled four blocks of ruins and

had electricity working in the building they lived in and guarded like a

fortress. Surely, like all the buildings in the ruins, that fortress had rats.

She planned to offer the cat along with herself, as a parcel, for in the rat-

infested ruins a cat was a most valuable commodity. That was probably why the

children had been so terrified when she caught them torturing it: she might

have been part of a gang that would have punished them severely. Carefully,

she rehearsed her speech: how appropriate the cat would be as mascot for the

Hellcats, how she herself had learned catlike stealth, how she could strike

and kill her enemies—

As she lay on her side with the cat perched on her shoulder, purring

purring contentedly, the girl thought happily about tomorrow night. Instead of

this pile of rags, she might have a real bed in the Hellcats’ fortress. She

wondered if they ate hot food every day. Her stomach rumbled and her mouth

watered at the thought.

No, she mustn’t think about food. Pickings had been lean lately. Even in the

market, there wasn’t much—so little of some items that she dared not take any,

as there would not be enough left to rearrange to hide her pilfering.

So she thought about warm clothes to replace the ones falling off her growing

body. She had had to tie front and back of the top of her garment together

with bits of string, and it kept slipping down in front, barely covering the

“bazooms” which now made her a valuable commodity to the rape gangs.

Some men had seen her today, and eyed her greedily, but she had slipped away,

hoping they were not rape gang members. When they did not follow her, she

assumed they were not. Still, being drooled over that way brought back the

memory of being caught—

She turned over, spilling the cat off her shoulder. It came back quietly as

soon as she settled in a new position, purring again. The girl rubbed its

head, taking comfort in its warmth, its softness, the way it pushed against

her hand as if to say it would take care of her.

Suddenly the cat arched, sat up, then leaped off the girl, hissing and

spitting.

She sat up—and saw a glimmer of light down the twisting corridor.

But she was not trapped; she had learned never to be without a bolt-hole.

She picked up the cat and scurried into an adjoining tunnel where she knelt,

trembling. She tried to calm the cat, fearing it would run toward their

hunters and be killed. When she felt secure

that it would come with her out the other direction, she set it down headed

the way she meant to go, whispering, “Now run! This place isn’t safe at all.”

She took one final glance toward the corridor where she could see the lights,

hear the men calling, taunting her—

The ruins were a deathtrap at night, but there was no choice. She had to run,

risk falling into one of the bottomless shafts—

A hand closed on her shoulder.

She turned by reflex, shock seizing her gut as she recognized the leader of

the rape gang, come in the back way—

The cat leaped on him!

The man yelled, and the others came pounding in as the girl slashed her

attacker’s shoulder.

Instantly, she realized her mistake. She should have run out past him; she

might have had a chance in the tunnels in the dark.

Revenge had cost her her chance—two men grabbed her from behind, while their

leader captured the cat in a hammy hand, then wrested the knife from the girl

and before her eyes gutted the only living being who cared for her.

She shrieked, struggled, bit, but it was no use. Again a hood was slipped over

her head, drawn tight about her throat. Her hands were forced behind her back

and manacled together, and she heard the man in front of her say, “We been

watching’ you, girl. You growed up nice an’ purty. You’ll fetch a good price,

oncet we’ve had our own fun!”

Then she was picked up, slung over somebody’s shoulder, as he continued,

“Let’s get outta here. Gotta get this cut fixed afore I do my playin’—an’

don’t you go gittin’ no ideas ‘bout havin’ her first!”

Struggling was hopeless. Her only chance was to go limp, let them think she

had passed out. Save her strength. It wasn’t all easy going—eventually her

captor had to put her down and rest a

moment. Even manacled and hooded, she jumped up and ran, barking her shins on

something, hitting her head—

Pain didn’t matter! If she fell down a bottomless shaft, even death would be

better than joy dust and a life of being used against her will. Enough joy

dust, and she wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t care about anything, not even her own

child—like her mother.

Although in her heart she knew it was hopeless, the girl used rage to keep

fear at bay.

A foot was thrust into her path. She fell headlong, unable to catch herself.

She turned her face sideways, but her cheek still impacted painfully with

solid rock and she came to being partly carried, partly dragged up into the

night air, chill against her skin. The man carrying her was swearing and

sweating with the exertion, but it did nothing to warm her. Despite her best

intentions, shock and fear took her. She shivered uncontrollably.

“Let’s rest here,” she heard the leader’s voice. “Damn—I’m still bleedin’!”

The girl was dumped to the ground, but did not see the kick coming and so

could not avoid it. It caught her in the ribs. She cried out in pain, and felt

her trembling increase.

“Wassamatter girl—you cold? Good! You made me suffer, you suffer. Shunta

kicked ya—don’t want no marks t’spoil yer price. But no reason you should be

comfortable.”

The girl felt the knife at her throat, but it didn’t cut her skin. Instead,

the strings holding the top of her garment were severed, and it dropped off.

Then the knife was at her waistband, slitting the rest of her clothes, peeling

them off as if he were skinning her, while the other men murmured approvingly.

The memory of former pain and humiliation refused to be denied. The girl lost

contact with her anger and shivered more and more violently—

“What’s going on here? What do you men think you’re doing?” an authoritative

voice rang out.

“Who’re you?” the rape gang leader responded. Even through her shock and

despair the girl heard astonishment and a hint of fear in his voice.

“My God!” said another voice, this one female. “They’re raping her! Dare—stop

them!”

“She’s mine!” exclaimed the gang leader. “You got yer own woman!”

“Let her go,” said the authoritative voice again. “She can tell us whether

she’s yours or not.”

The strange voices were hard to understand; the girl had never heard anyone

who spoke just like them before, even though they were speaking her language.

“Lookit!” said one of the gang members. “They got a purty woman, jewelry, an’

technic stuff! There’s only three of ‘em—”

“Shut up! You want druglords’ revenge?”

“Drop ‘em down the pits. No one’ll know. It’s only three, Hafe! Look, man,

that’s gold they’re wearin’!”

With her head covered, the girl could not tell exactly what happened, but she

could guess that greed overcame fear, and the gang rushed the newcomers,

intending to rob and kill them.

Grasping the unexpected chance, she began worming away from the sounds of the

fight.

She heard a strange, high-pitched whirring sound, like nothing she had ever

heard before, and thuds of bodies dropping, followed by gasps of fear and

footsteps running . . . away.

Hands touched her. She squirmed and kicked in terror.

“Hey—it’s all right!” said the female voice. “We’re not going to hurt you.

You’re safe now.”

The hands were untying the hood, so the girl lay still, desperate to be free

of it. “Oh, my God—it’s just a little girl!” said the woman. “Honey, you’re

safe,” she repeated. “We won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

There was light, not torch beams but some strange bright electric light that

brought tears to the girl’s eyes as she peered up at her new captors.

The woman was at her side, but the girl’s eyes traveled past without taking

her in, looking up, up long black-clad legs, past some sort of yellow-green

pattern on his chest to the face of her new possessor.

To the terrified girl, it seemed a cruel face, staring into hers with eyes as

dark and cold as the winter sky. Then the full lips parted, and compassion she

assumed was false warmed his features as he squatted down beside her. “Poor

little thing! Margie, can’t you get her hands untied?”

“They’re not tied,” said the woman. “They’re hand-cuffed.”

“Can you talk?” the man asked. “Can you understand us?”

“I . . . understand,” the girl ventured warily. As her eyes got used to the

light, she could see the bodies of at least four members of the rape gang

lying sprawled within her range of vision. These were obviously very dangerous

people. Had to be druglords.

“Good,” the man said with warm approval. “We’ll get those things off your

hands, and then—But you’re cold!” he said as a new wave of shivering coursed

through the girl’s body. He looked around, picked up the remains of her

clothing and dropped it at once, dusting his hand against his thigh. Then he

touched a glittering gold brooch on his chest. It made a chittering noise, and

the girl jumped.

The man gave her a reassuring smile, but what he said was not to her or to

anybody there with them. “Adin here. I need a metal cutter

and a blanket to these coordinates—and hurry. And send down a medic—preferably

female. We’ve got a little girl here, assault case.”

“Yes, sir,” the brooch answered him.

“It’s . . . a comcon!” the girl said. “Innat teeny thing!”

“Yes, that’s right,” the man said. “And you know the word for it.”

“Yah. But where’s the wire?”

“Wire?”

“The wire the sound travels through,” she explained. Did he think her so

stupid she didn’t know how comcons worked?

His lips parted again, this time as if he had suddenly discovered something.

“So that’s why we couldn’t get a response on any frequency! They don’t have

wireless communications.” He looked past the girl to the woman, a question in

his eyes.

She lifted the technic thing hung over her shoulder and pointed it at the

girl. It made a whirring sound, and something on it lit up. “Reads human,” she

said, “and the translator didn’t kick in. That’s why what these people say

sounds strange: it’s our language, changed just enough to sound different to

us.” She glanced meaningfully at the ruins around them. “Obviously, they once

had a much higher level of technology, too. Dare, I think we’ve found a lost

Earth colony.”

“Thank God,” he said. “That means we can take this poor child out of here.”

“Dare, you can’t—” the woman began, but was interrupted by yet another

peculiar sound. A glittering glow appeared a small distance away, and the girl

sat up in utter astonishment as out of nothingness coalesced a blanket with

another technic thing on top of it.

The third member of this very strange gang brought both over, and the woman

did something with the technic thing behind the girl’s back. Suddenly her

hands were free. Then the woman gently

wrapped the blanket around her. It was wonderfully soft, clean, whole. The

girl pulled it tight just as the glittering glow appeared again—and this time

turned into another woman!

“I’m Dr. Munson,” she introduced herself. “We won’t hurt you, child.” She held

up a small silver thing. “This instrument will tell me how badly you’ve been

hurt.”

The girl backed off, wondering where the woman meant to stick the thing, but

she only pointed it. It made a soft whirring as she held it near different

parts of the girl’s body. Then the woman looked at it and said, “A slight

concussion, one broken rib, contusions, and shock are her immediate problems.

But Mr. Adin, you were right to call me. She’s malnourished, needs extensive

dental work, and is suffering from both internal and external parasites.

Please note that the latter means we all go through full decontamination when

we beam up.”

“No protest on that, Doctor,” replied the man that, confusingly, this woman

addressed as “Mr. Adin,” but the other woman called “Dare.” It must mean, the

girl reasoned, that one was his name and the other his title; he must be the

leader of this gang. He rubbed his hand against his clothes again as he asked,

“Is it all right for me to ask her some questions before you take her to

sickbay?”

“Take her to—?” The woman’s eyes widened, her tone of voice a protest.

The other woman said, “The girl and the men we chased off speak a variant of

our language. It’s an Earth colony, Doctor.”

Doctor looked around. Dawn was just breaking, revealing the ruined city. “I

can see why your first instinct is to beam the child up, Mr. Adin, but we’ll

have to have the Captain’s permission, and also that of her parents.”

Silently, the girl absorbed that. So Mr. Adin/Dare was not the

gang leader; he answered to someone else. She had to leave off puzzling that

out as Doctor turned to her. “Do your parents know where you are, child? They

must be worried sick.”

“Parents?” the girl asked.

“Mother. Father. Your family.”

“Got no family,” the girl replied sullenly. Actually, she had no idea whether

her mother was even alive, although she doubted it. Hooked on joy dust, she

probably didn’t survive more than a year after abandoning her child.

“Who takes care of you?” asked Mr. Adin.

“Take care o’ myself!”

He studied her, obviously wanting to ask something else but saying instead,

“My name is Darryl Adin. My friends call me Dare. What’s your name?”

“Tasha,” the girl replied. It sounded strange; no one had spoken her name

since the old woman died.

“Tasha,” said Darryl Adin. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Don’t wanta be pretty!” the girl told him angrily. “’Tracts the rape gangs!”

“Rape gangs!” exclaimed Doctor. “What sort of place is this?”

“Not exactly the ideal planet for shore leave,” Darryl Adin replied. Then he

returned to his questioning. “Tasha, do you have another name?”

Tasha thought rapidly. This was a very, very powerful gang. It had more

technic things than she had ever seen, and this man, obviously important in

gang ranking even if he wasn’t the leader, wanted to take her with him. She

knew what that meant, had known the moment he said she was pretty.

How was she to escape, when they had weapons to defeat a whole rape gang

without any of them so much as being cut? Tasha

was exhausted, and still cold despite the blanket. She couldn’t fight them, so

the best thing was to cooperate. For now.

There were women in this gang, and they appeared to be treated with respect.

Maybe she could gain the same respect.

Doctor had said things that suggested Tasha’s injuries would be cared for. And

Darryl Adin had told her to take the girl to someplace called Sickbay. Maybe

he didn’t want her with a black eye and broken rib—she remembered what the

rape gang leader had said about not marking her. Druglords were particular

about their women.

That made up Tasha’s mind. She was weak, tired, injured. Healing would take a

few days, and in the meantime they might feed her and give her new clothes.

Druglords had plenty of food and clothing—they had plenty of everything. She

would take what they gave her, regain her strength—and then, as soon as she

was well and Darryl Adin expected her to be delivered to his bed, she would

escape.

Perhaps escape would be impossible. Perhaps they would catch her and force her

to submit, or kill her if she refused.

But they would certainly kill her if she did not cooperate with them now, for

she had no strength left. For the time being it was best to be very

cooperative, try to fit in. Be sweet to Doctor Munson while she was in this

Sickbay place, maybe learn how women got to be gang members instead of just

men’s playthings. The two women were dressed like the two men, except for

different colored patterns on the tops of their clothes. It had to mean they

were actual gang members. The way Doctor Munson talked back to Darryl Adin, it

was certain she was!

Darryl Adin had asked if she had another name. He had two names. Doctor Munson

had two names. Probably the other gang members had two names, as well. She

didn’t remember her mother’s

name—and if she had, would not have wanted to be known by it. So she took one

more legacy from the old woman who had taken in a frightened, starving five-

year-old and shared what little she had with her. “Yar,” she replied boldly.

“My name is Tasha Yar!”

Chapter Two

STARFLEET LIEUTENANT TASHA YAR, Security Chief of the U.S.S. Enterprise,

beamed aboard from the planet Minos with a sense of profound relief. For a

time, as an uncontrolled weapon relentlessly pursued them, she had feared that

she and the people she was responsible for would all perish—but once again the

smooth cooperation of an Enterprise away team had brought them through.

Nonetheless, after she had logged her report and gone off duty, Yar found

herself on edge and unable to relax.

She tried a book-tape and soft music, hoping to lull herself to sleep. . . .

The door buzzed. “Come in,” called Yar. Not surprisingly, it was her close

friend, Ship’s Counselor Deanna Troi.

“You are troubled, Tasha,” said Troi without preamble.

“Are you here as my friend or my counselor?” Yar asked warily.

“Either,” Troi replied with her serene smile. “Or neither, if you wish me to

leave.”

“No, no—if I’m broadcasting emotions, then I suppose I need help in dealing

with them,” Yar admitted.

“And you detest asking for help,” her friend responded gently.

“Why don’t we just talk? You probably don’t really need my professional

skills.”

Yar studied her beautiful friend. Also off duty, Troi was wearing a robe of

soft blue, green, and violet, and her hair was loosened into a riot of curls.

It made her look younger than her usual severe upsweep, as did the fact that

the loose robe concealed her voluptuous figure as her form-fitting uniform did

not.

Yar noticed Troi notice what she was wearing as well: plain blue tailored

pajamas under a short, untrimmed coat of darker blue.

Oh, damn.

Seeing Troi’s smile tilt her lips again, Yar said, “Don’t look so smug. Yes, I

see what I’ve done. I’m hiding my femininity again, and you don’t think that’s

normal when I have to wear a unisex uniform all the time I’m on duty.”

“Tasha, the term ‘normal’ is meaningless, as you very well know. Wearing plain

nightwear is nothing to be concerned about. However, being unable to sleep is,

especially after the day you’ve had.”

“Maybe I’m overtired.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps feeling helpless down on the planet triggered your worst

memories. The ones you try to keep hidden, even from yourself.”

Was that it? Did she fear to sleep lest her old nightmares about the rape

gangs resurface? They had once before on this mission, when she was almost

forced to stand by and watch the execution of Wesley Crusher, who was the same

age Yar had been when Starfleet rescued her.

“I know I hate to lose control of a situation,” she told Deanna. “The Captain

and Dr. Crusher were in trouble, and we couldn’t even find them.” She heard

the tension in her voice, could not stop it.

“And that . . . that weapon kept appearing, stronger and faster every time—I

couldn’t stop it.”

“You speak as if it were your responsibility alone, Tasha. Will Riker was in

command of the away team, and Data was—”

“Security is my job! I was there to protect them, not the other way around. If

I cannot trust myself—”

Troi merely sat in silence.

Yar got up, paced. “There it is again. I can’t trust anyone but myself.” She

shook her head. “But I do, every day. I delegate responsibility. I trust the

other members of an away team to guard my back, as I guard theirs.”

“Yes, you do. By habit, by practice. But could it be that inside you still

fear that any one of them could let you down?”

“They’re only human. Except Data, of course.”

“Interesting you should mention Data,” Troi said invitingly.

“Forget it!” Yar snapped. “That is private territory that I don’t discuss even

with you. It has nothing to do with my current concerns.”

“Are you sure?” Troi asked.

“Positive.”

“Even though Data is everything you wish you were?”

“What?” Yar asked, completely puzzled. She had thought Troi was referring to

the time she had seduced their android colleague—which, since it had happened

in the privacy of her own quarters, and since Data had adhered as scrupulously

as she to her instruction that “It never happened,” was absolutely nowhere in

the records. Not even the Ship’s Counselor knew. Oh, damn. I just told her by

my reaction that there’s something unresolved between Data and me.

But Troi was pursuing a different train of thought. “Tasha, you have made an

incredibly successful recovery from the terrible traumas of your childhood. It

is little wonder that you have trouble

relying on other people, that you expect far too much of yourself. Do you envy

Data his strength, his quickness, his knowledge?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Yar asked. “If he weren’t programmed with humility, he

would be a regular pain in the—”

“It’s not programmed humility, Tasha,” said Troi. “Data envies us.”

“That’s ridiculous. He has everything humans have, and more. What could he

possibly envy us?”

“I am not revealing a confidence, for he has said it openly. You’ve heard him:

he wishes he were human.”

Yar frowned. She had never given that particular aberration of her android

colleague much thought. “Does Data come to you for counseling?”

“He is a member of this crew. He has the same right as the rest of you.”

“But he’s a machine,” Yar protested. “He can’t really have . . . feelings?”

“He can and he does. Look up the records of his entrance examination for

Starfleet Academy. There was no question of his intelligence, of course, or

his physical stamina, but one of the entry requirements is that one be

sentient. Not only sapient, but sentient, Tasha. Self-aware. That implies

feelings. Computers and robots are not admitted to Starfleet Academy. Data

was.”

Is she feeling guilt from me now? Yar wondered. This means I hurt him—at the

least I confused him. And it’s been so long now. How do I apologize?

Troi’s huge dark eyes studied Yar. “You will sleep untroubled tonight, I

think.”

“You do?” Yar asked, startled. “Why? I’ve just discovered another problem.”

“Yes—but it has to do with someone else, not yourself. And you

are very good at caring for others, Tasha. Your problems all come when you

demand too much of yourself. I will say good night now. But one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Talk to Data.” Before Yar could protest the apparent invasion of privacy,

Troi continued. “It would be good for both of you. Tasha, you want to be the

iron woman, able to defeat all enemies with any weapon or your bare hands, all

pertinent facts ready at hand. Data has the physical strength and wide-ranging

knowledge you envy, and yet he would give it all up to be human. Talk with

him; I think you will learn a great deal from one another.”

“Is that a prescription, Counselor?”

“It’s a suggestion, friend.”

And after Troi had gone, Yar discovered—in the morning, when her wakeup

sounded—that she did indeed sleep well, untroubled by worrisome dreams.

Lieutenant Commander Data was at his usual post on the bridge when the message

arrived from Treva. Instantly, he accessed all available information on the

planet: Class M, humanoid culture of undetermined origin, technological level

comparable to pre-atomic mid-twentieth-century Earth, no space travel, but

space trade with non-Federation cultures before contact by the Federation.

Preliminary petition for Federation membership presented to the Federation

Council some fifteen Standard Years ago. A Starfleet survey team’s report had

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandincidentsareeithertheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.AnOriginalPublicationofPOCKETBOOKS?POCKETBOOKS,adivisionofSimon&SchusterInc.1230AvenueoftheA...

展开>> 收起<<

PDF - Star Trek - TNG - Survivors.pdf

共127页,预览26页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

PDF - Star Trek - TNG - Survivors

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: